


A Scandal in Aradia

by TomorrowNeverCame



Series: The Woman [1]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1800s, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Sherlock Holmes, Gen, Hilda first-person POV, Hilda is Watson, ITS BEEN 84 YEARS okay it's been four months, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, It’s Lilith but she’s using Mary’s name for reasons, Lilith is Irene Adler because of course she is, Original Adam, Prequel of sorts, Rated T for those references but they are very brief and non-graphic, Zelda is Sherlock, based on A Scandal in Bohemia, but it's finally here!!!, i spent way too much time researching pomegranates for this, she's the most fun to write
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23879026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomorrowNeverCame/pseuds/TomorrowNeverCame
Summary: After recent events bring her suddenly back into their lives years later, Hilda Spellman, sister and assistant of the famous detective Zelda Spellman, recounts the first time they met the woman known then as Mary Wardwell.
Relationships: Hilda Spellman & Zelda Spellman, Zelda Spellman & Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith, Zelda Spellman/Lilith
Series: The Woman [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1720975
Comments: 16
Kudos: 35





	A Scandal in Aradia

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my God, can you believe it's finally here?? I know, it's been months since I posted the preview on Tumblr, so I'm hoping people are still interested because I'm very excited about this whole series even though it's been slow going! 
> 
> I really need to thank all the friends who have encouraged me to keep going, and especially my wonderful beta muscatmusic18 (themoon-andher-love on Tumblr) who has listened to me go round and round and round about Lilith and Adam's backstory this past week.
> 
> Also, a note that while he's using the alias Adam Masters, the prince character here is meant to be OG Adam. I hope that's clear enough.
> 
> Read forth and enjoy!

I. 

After recent events, I’ve found myself drawn back to the memory of this case over and over. Though it all happened years ago, I’ve never written it down. Perhaps out of respect for Zelda, who hates to be reminded of it even more so now. Perhaps because I sensed things were not well and truly finished. In truth, if anything they seem less finished now than ever before. But, at my husband’s insistence, I find myself writing, looking less for clues than for clarity.

To my sister, she was only _the woman_. Zelda seldom referred to her any other way, and even then never by her real name—and we did learn her real name, as you shall, by the end of things. But only because she left it for us, signed on the back of her photograph. That, I think, got to Zelda more than anything else. She refused to let me see the inscription, of course, but I snuck a peak one night after she’d stumbled up to bed with the entire decanter of whiskey. Zelda’s possessiveness was not strange to me; her love is reserved for very few things and even fewer people, but those she does love she holds too tightly. To say she loved the woman after their brief encounter is an overstatement, but it’s important enough that she felt something. For all her skills of observation, Zelda passes most people by without notice, not worth the time or effort of connection. The woman was different. In Zelda’s eyes, she eclipsed every other. A challenger. An equal.

This is the story of how we first met the woman known briefly as Mary Wardwell.

I had seen little of my sister lately. My marriage had closed her off from me, my own complete happiness at irrevocable odds with the bitter resentment she felt at my leaving. While the home-centred interests that rise up around a newly married woman were sufficient to absorb all my attention, Zelda remained fully engrossed in our parents’ legacy, buried among old books and fresh newspapers in our lodgings on Baker Street, alternating from week to week between alcohol and ambition, the drowsiness of drink and the fierce energy of her own keen nature. She was still, as ever, deeply attracted to the study of crime, and occupied her immense powers of observation and wit in following out those clues and clearing up those mysteries that had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police (though our dear brother had no qualms about still taking the credit). From time to time I heard accounts of her movements through the local daily press—though she was never actually mentioned, I easily identified her hand in the events—and somewhat more frequently if more vaguely through our young niece. Beyond these signs of activity, however, I knew little of my sister’s wellbeing, though not for lack of inquiry.

One night—it was on the thirtieth of October, 1888, a day before our niece’s thirteenth birthday—I was returning from a journey to a patient (for I had returned to the occasional practice of midwifery and apothecary), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the well-remembered door, I was possessed for a moment by the same stubborn irritability my siblings inherited more fully; I would call on my sister this evening and she would receive me, whether she liked it or not. The windows shone brilliantly in the evening light, and even as I looked up I saw her figure, slightly taller and worryingly thinner than mine, pass twice in a dark silhouette against the curtain. She was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, chin sunk to her chest and one elbow propped by the other hand to bring a cigarette to her lips. To me, who knows her every mood and habit as well as one can know another, this told the whole story. She was at work again, risen out of whiskey dreams and hot upon the scent of some new problem. I rang the bell and was shown up to the chamber that had formerly been in part my own.

Zelda merely rolled her eyes when I entered the room, waving her cigarette towards an armchair while she moved in the opposite direction, toward the liquor cabinet. Pouring a large measure of whiskey, she then stood before the fire and looked me over in her singularly critical fashion.

“You look well, Hilda,” she said stiffly. “Taken up the practice again, I see.” I grinned knowingly. This was a familiar game.

“And how do you deduce that, Zelds?"

“It’s painfully obvious,” she scoffed. “As it is also obvious that Ambrose has gotten into another fight recently, and that your husband especially enjoyed whatever you did to him in bed last night."

“Sister!” Heat rushed to my face, and I pulled my scarf higher on my neck, certain it must have slipped and revealed the dark bruise Cee had left there.

“Oh, stop, nothing is showing. But you’ve adjusted that scarf three times since entering the room. It was rather difficult not to notice.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to comment,” I muttered, then sighed. There was no point in arguing it; this was just Zelda’s way. “Fine, then how about the rest? You’re right, of course, on all accounts.”

Zelda smirked. “I know.” Knocking back her drink in one smooth movement, she resumed her pacing, gesturing with her cigarette holder as she went. “It’s simple: The smell of iodoform and ginger followed you into the room—an interesting combination, and one that tells me you’ve been not only disinfecting medical equipment but treating nausea relief, which can only lead me to conclude you’ve just come from attending a woman nearing the end of her first trimester. As for Ambrose…” 

Her footsteps stalled, and she took a deep drag before continuing in a heavy tone, “There are three marks on your index finger where you’ve pricked yourself with a large needle. A large needle means heavy fabric, the kind men wear at the docks, where Ambrose works, and since you didn’t use the sewing machine, it was a small tear. But even then, you are not the sort to slip with a needle, which means you were distracted with worry and frustration, sloppy with your movements, and that would not be the case if it was simply torn in the course of his job.”

“You’d have been burned a few centuries ago, you know? They’d have said you were a witch, that you Saw things.”

“Oh, but Sister, that’s precisely the point. I do see. I see everything, and furthermore, I observe.”

“Please don’t ask me how many stairs there are again."

“I was going to ask about the picture frames, actually.”

“You’re in a suspiciously good mood,” I pointed out as she draped herself in the armchair next to me. I’d expected cursing, sulking, even being outright ignored, considering how I’d apparently abandoned her, but she was acting as if I’d never left at all. “Why?”

She smiled wickedly then, and I realized with dread that she’d been waiting for the entire conversation to come to this. I’d walked into a trap. 

“This came in the last post,” she said, and handed over a sheet of thick, yellow paper, which had been lying open on the table between us. When I took it, she settled back in her seat and closed her eyes. “Read it aloud.”

The note was undated, without either signature or address.

“There will call upon you tonight, at a quarter to eight o’clock,” it said, “a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter of the very deepest moment. Your recent services to one of the royal houses of Europe have shown that you may safely be trusted with matters that are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated. We have received this account of you from all quarters. Be in your chamber, then, at that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor wears a mask.”

“Well, that’s a bit ominous, isn’t it?” I said. “Who do you imagine you’re expecting?”

Zelda shook her head. “I have no data yet. You know what a mistake it is to theorize before one has any data. But, the note itself. What do you deduce from it?”

I carefully examined the writing and the paper upon which it was written.

“The man who wrote it is presumably well off,” I remarked. “You couldn’t buy this for under half a crown a packet. It’s peculiarly strong and stiff, and it’s been dyed.”

“Peculiar—that’s the very word,” said Zelda. “It is not an English paper at all.” She rose and crossed the room, taking down a heavy brown volume from one bookcase. “That golden yellow color is the key. It comes from being dyed with pomegranate. A rare fruit in these parts, but not further south. Let’s see here, yes—the Mediterranean country of Aradia is most well-known for their pomegranates, where they are not only exported but used to create rich dyes and ink for use in the equally lucrative paper mills and textile production. Well, Sister, what do you make of that?” Her eyes sparkled, and she took a triumphant drag of her cigarette.

“The paper was made in Aradia.”

“Precisely. And, there is something odd about the phrasing, is there not?—‘Matters that are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated…’—which leads me to believe our visitor is, in fact, Aradian. It only remains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by this mysterious Aradian who writes on expensive paper and prefers wearing a mask to showing his face.” She turned sharply, suddenly toward the window, a full second before the sound of horse’s hooves and grating wheels reached my ears. “And here he comes to resolve all our doubts.” I jumped up, pushing shoulder to shoulder with Zelda to watch as the carriage arrived.

“A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties,” I remarked, impressed. “A hundred and fifty guineas a piece.”

"There’s money in this case, Hilda, if nothing else.”

“I had better go."

“Nonsense,” Zelda scoffed. “Stay where you are. This should be quite interesting.” She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, expression unreadably heavy. “It would be a pity to miss it."

“But your client—“

“Never mind him. We’ll convince him of the need for your help. I simply will not take the case without you, so sit back down and give us your best attention, for here he comes.”

A slow and heavy tap, which had been heard upon the stairs and in the passage, paused immediately outside the door. There was a loud and authoritative rap on the door. 

“Come in!” called Zelda, quickly abandoning her cigarette.

The man who entered was tall and broad-chested, his rich dress betraying more than just physical power. He was handsome, from what little I could tell, with a sharp chin and dark eyes. More than this I couldn’t say, for he wore across the upper part of his face, extending down past his cheekbones, a black mask. His hand was still raised to it as he entered, as if he had only just adjusted it.

“You received my note?” His eyes shifted between us, uncertain which one to address. “I told you that I would call.”

“Please,” said Zelda, stepping forward and gesturing towards the abandoned armchairs. “Take a seat. This is my sister, Hilda, who assists me on my cases. Whom have I the honor to address?”

“You may address me as Count Adam Masters, an Aradian nobleman,” he answered, not making any move to sit. "I understand that this lady, your sister, is a woman of honor and discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you alone.”

I moved to leave, but Zelda’s arm blocked my way. “It is both, or none,” she said firmly. “You may say before my sister anything you would say to me."

The Count shrugged. “Then I must begin,” said he, “by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years. At the end of that time, the matter will be of no importance. At present, however, it is not exaggerating to say that it is of such weight it may have an influence upon European history.”

“I promise,” said Zelda.

“And I.”

“You will excuse this mask,” continued our strange visitor. “I must confess that the title by which I have just called myself is not exactly my own; your client is the august person who employs me as his agent to you.”

“I was aware of it,” Zelda said mildly.

“The circumstances are of great delicacy,” the man pressed, "and every precaution has to be taken to stifle what could become an immense scandal and seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Luto, hereditary kings of Aradia.”

Zelda, unimpressed by this statement, finally moved to sit, glancing back in expectation. “I was also aware of that."

Our visitor eyed her with apparent surprise and no small displeasure; while he had no doubt been told that Zelda was the most incisive reasoner and energetic agent in Europe, she was still a woman, and men, especially powerful men, were never prepared for the respect she demanded of them.

I retreated to Zelda’s shoulder as she remarked impatiently, “if Your Highness would condescend to state your case, I should be better able to advise you.”

The man glared at us for a moment, then cursed, tearing the mask from his face and hurling it to the ground. “You are right,” he sighed, finally dropping into the empty chair. “I am the Prince. Why should I attempt to conceal it?”

“Why, indeed?” murmured Zelda, arching a brow. “I was aware that I was addressing Your Highness, Prince Adam of Aradia and heir to the throne, before you had even spoken.”

“Please understand, Madame,” he implored, passing an anxious hand through his short, black hair, “that too many questions would be asked if I were seen, or even suspected, to be consulting you. Yet the matter is so delicate I could not entrust it to a middleman without putting myself in his power. The only option was to arrive incognito. I have traveled through Prague to get here.”

“And pray, do finally tell us for what purpose you have come,” Zelda drawled. The prince’s eyes glinted at the tone, and I placed a warning hand on my sister’s shoulder. In need of our help he may be, but it was still a powerful man before us, and it would do no good to insult him.

“I’ll ask you not to make light of my predicament, Miss Spellman. At least not until you have heard the case.” Zelda wisely did not reply, only lifting her chin for him to continue.

“My story is this: Some three years ago, during a lengthy visit to Scotland, I made the acquaintance of an actress known as Mary Wardwell. We were quite taken with each other. I even intended to marry her.”

“And yet, now you are engaged to marry Evelyn De Jardine, Princess of France. Am I to surmise that Your Highness recanted on your promise to marry Lady Wardwell, and the woman, scorned, made off with evidence of the affair that could compromise the expected royal marriage, should it be made public?”

“Precisely. The King and Queen forbade the match, and we regretfully parted ways shortly after. I had thought that I would never see or hear from her again, but shortly after the announcement of my marriage to the princess, I was contacted. She intends to expose the affair. You must know of the strict principles of the French royal family. Princess Evelyn herself is the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a doubt as to my contact would bring the arrangement to an end."

“And what evidence of the affair does she possess?”

“Letters I wrote to her and a photograph of us together.”

“I see. The letters can be easily dismissed as forgeries, but the photograph compromises Your Highness most seriously. It must be retrieved.”

“Five attempts have been made. Twice, burglars in my pay have ransacked her lodgings. Once, we diverted her luggage when she traveled. Twice, she has been waylaid. There has been no result.”

“No sign of it?”

“Absolutely none.”

“Quite a pretty little problem,” Zelda mused to herself, mind no doubt already turning.

“But a very serious one to me,” the Prince said darkly. 

“Very, indeed. She will not be bought, I assume. This is a matter of pride, not money.”

“Nothing will dissuade her. I know that she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a soul of steel. She has the face of the most beautiful of women, and the mind of the most resolute of men. I adored her for that, dreamed I might be the one to tame her feral soul, but turned against me there are no lengths to which she will not go to see me ruined.” Zelda’s shoulder tensed under my warning grip, and I knew well why, but she wisely made no move to address the comments.

“You are sure she has not sent it yet?”

“I am sure.”

“Why?”

“Her letter said outright that she would send it on the day when the betrothal was publicly claimed. That will be next Monday.”

“Oh, then we have three days yet,” Zelda shrugged. “That is very fortunate, as I have some family matters to attend to this weekend.”

The Prince’s knuckles went white around the edges of the mask in his hands. “Madame, may I remind you that the outcome of this case may very well change the course of history? I expect it to be given the entirety of your time and consideration. There will be no time for frivolity with one’s family,” he scoffed, "until your task is completed. You have an exceptional mind for a woman, so I have overlooked your lack of proper manners, but a lack of professionalism I will not abide.”

I spoke quickly then, before Zelda could, for I knew she was sure to be even more enraged than I—and worse at hiding it.

“Forgive me, Your Highness, but I’m guessing we weren’t your first option for solving this problem of yours, were we? You must not have many left. So I’d watch how you talk to her, because she hasn’t actually taken the case yet."

“Thank you, Hilda,” Zelda spoke quickly, cutting off the Prince from whatever reply he’d been about to make. Shaking off my shoulder, she stood, looking down at our visitor with what I’m sure was a scathing glare, yet her voice remained even.

“I will take your case, and my reputation itself ensures you will be satisfied. So, if there is no more information you feel is necessary to provide, then I would like to discuss payment."

“You have carte blanche,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Absolutely?”

“I tell you that I would give one of Aradia’s provinces to have that photograph.”

“And for present expenses?”

The Prince took a heavy leather bag from under his cloak and laid it on the table. 

“There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in notes.” I quickly moved to Zelda’s desk and scribbled a receipt.

“You will stay in London and await news of our progress, I’m sure?” Zelda said.

“Certainly,” he said, taking the receipt from me as he rose. "You will find me at the Langham under the name of Adam Masters.”

“And your Mary Wardwell’s address?”

“Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John’s Wood.”

I wrote this down as well, shooting the Prince a tight smile as he turned to leave. He paused at the door, looking back at Zelda with a heavy frown.

“Do not underestimate her, Madame. She has outsmarted the best men I could buy.”

“And that was your mistake,” Zelda said with a smirk, pulling a fresh cigarette from her case and lighting it easily. “You put your trust in men. But I am a woman, Your Highness, as is she. I am quite confident that I already understand her better than you could ever hope to.”

“Goodnight, Your Highness,” I said. "I trust that we shall soon have some good news for you.”

With a last, vaguely disgusted look in Zelda’s direction, he left. I glared at Zelda, knowing she would understand the chastisement without me wasting the words. As expected, she simply rolled her eyes in reply. Then the door slammed below, and we both moved towards the window yet 

“Bit of a brute, isn’t he, for a prince?” I asked, watching the carriage roll away into the night.

“Indeed,” Zelda mused. Her gaze remained fixed on where it had disappeared, narrowed in thought as she smoked. “And he’s withholding something. I’m sure of it.”

“What do you think that is?” Zelda gave me a look. “Ah, right, sorry."

“I’ll have to meet this…Miss Wardwell as soon as possible.” She spun on her heel suddenly, disappearing into the bedroom. I followed, only to find her half-consumed by the wardrobe as she rifled through it, occasionally tossing a dress onto the bed. 

“I’ll say goodnight now, Hilda.” She said over her shoulder. “You may collect me tomorrow at three o’clock for Sabrina’s birthday; I’ll be busy before then.”

“What are you planning, Zelds?” I asked as I dodged a flying hat, but Zelda, already lost in whatever scheme she was cooking up, didn’t hear me. 

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to leave kudos/comments if you enjoyed! :)


End file.
